


The Norway of the Year

by getoffmyhead



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: End of Movember Celebration, Love/Hate Relationship with a Mustache, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 04:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmyhead/pseuds/getoffmyhead
Summary: Movember: a portmanteau of the Australian-English diminutive word for mustache, "mo," and "November."





	The Norway of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> "November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."  
> \- Emily Dickinson

They’re hockey players. Ever-changing facial hair is part of the business. They grow beards in the playoffs, as well as they can manage. They shave meticulously at home. They get stubbly on the road. Which is why, maybe, Geno doesn’t really notice when Sid lets his mustache start to grow until Sid himself brings it up. 

“Do you think I should shave?”

He’s lying on his back on the couch with his feet in Geno’s lap. His eyes haven’t moved from his Kindle, but he’s not really reading. He’s worrying about the team, about their recent fall in the standings and their disjointed chemistry. 

Geno frowns over at him, studying his face, and for the first time really allows himself to look at the patchy beginnings of a mustache. He shrugs. “If you want. Maybe is bad for image.”

“Yeah, I know. Shaving during Movember… But lots of guys don’t do it at all. You don’t.”

Geno hums a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t do it because it’s stupid and itchy, and it takes too long to shave around a mustache. Besides, he can barely grow one, even now in his thirties. 

“Do you hate it?”

“What?”

Sid gestures at his face. 

“Mustache? No. I don’t mind. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t seem to be the right thing to say. Sid makes a solemn face and looks back at his Kindle. “Okay. Maybe I’ll shave it. See if we can get something going.”

“Okay,” Geno says, and that seems to be the end of it. 

****************

Sid doesn’t shave before they hit the road to New Jersey the next morning, but Geno just figures he’s working up to it. It takes him a lot of mental energy to change during the season, weighing the ‘what ifs’ of luck and magic and tradition, not to mention how he’ll discuss it with the ever-curious press.

They lose worse in the Prudential Center than the scoreboard reflects, which Geno knows isn’t helping. Every loss is another brick added to the weight on Sid’s shoulders, another line of worry in his face. Something is wrong with their team, and it’s not the same wrong as last time. Every year, it seems like there’s another weed of malfunction they need to pull and stamp out before the playoffs, and every year it gets harder to find. 

Geno forces his feet to move past Sid’s seat on the plane. After a loss, sometimes he likes to take the Flower seat and bother Sid into a better mood, but this isn’t the day for it. He settles in with Phil and demands pictures of his dog before takeoff instead. 

The flight is short, barely an hour. It’s not even enough time to properly wind down from the game. Geno is half-worried Sid will suggest a detour to the gym when they depart, but he just shoulders his bag and hands the keys out to Geno in a silent request that he drive. 

By the time they get home, Geno has figured out something deeper is at issue than the losing streak. Sid doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Geno can tell in the way he carries himself, in the ginger way he gets out of the car. He’s hurt and he doesn’t want to be and he’s trying to ignore it. 

“Hey,” Geno says instead of pulling on him when they get inside. He doesn’t know exactly what hurts, doesn’t want to make it worse.

Sid has a crease of deep worry between his eyebrows when he turns back. 

“You want some ice?”

Sid sort of deflates, like he thought he was doing such a good job pretending. “No. I think I’m just going to sit in the bath for a while. Hopefully the heat...”

Geno steps forward to kiss him. “Want me to come? Can watch third period of the Sharks game.”

“I don’t even want to think about hockey right now, G.”

A scary proposition, but fair. He watches Sid go away, moving like an old man. It reminds him of all the creaks in his own joints, the pains that never mattered as much when he was lifting the cup. 

He snags two bottles of beer from the fridge and locates the iPad. He puts it on his forearm to scroll through while he walks through the house and finds what he wants before he gets to the bathroom. As he hoped, the door is cracked. He shoulders it open. 

Sid is still in his slacks, barefoot and shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bathtub as it fills. He looks up with something like a plea in his eyes which turns to a crinkly-eyed smile when Geno holds out a bottle. “Thanks.”

Geno sets the iPad on the nearby counter, propped up on a box of Kleenex, and taps the icon for the newest episode in Sid’s espionage thriller series. He isn’t as big a fan. Russians are always the fucking bad guy, it seems, and his patriotism flares a little too hot to tolerate it. But Sid looks relieved and grateful, and he can ignore it if he doesn’t concentrate on the English too hard. 

Geno strips out of his gameday suit and into some soft pajama pants. He showered at the arena and doesn’t feel any need to turn into prune, so he settles beside the tub while Sid sinks into the water. The spies on the iPad are talking very seriously about double agents within their organization. 

“They’ll say it’s a concussion,” Sid says during a lull in the show. 

It’s not. Sid wouldn’t move so stiffly with a concussion, hold himself so carefully. Geno knows the concussion signs, and he’s not worried. 

“Maybe I can play through it.”

“Probably not good idea,” Geno says. “You maybe hurt longer.”

“Yeah,” Sid says mournfully. He sighs and reaches for the beer on the side of the tub. “I should have just shaved the fucking thing.”

“Sure. Mustache too heavy. You get hurt.”

Sid snorts a laugh. It’s nice to hear something non-miserable out of him. Geno smiles over at him, full of fondness for the way his hair curls in the humidity from the tub. He reaches out and runs a thumb along his cheek, slowing at the edge of his mustache. 

“I think I like it.”

Suspicion drops like a mask over Sid’s face. “Oh really?”

“Sure. You should keep.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look good. So handsome.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Geno grins and takes his hand back. On the iPad, the spies are learning it was the Russians all along. He rolls his eyes and sips his beer. 

****************** 

The mustache is still there two days later when they play Tampa at home, when Sid is out on injured reserve. Geno half-thought he would take the time out of the lineup to get rid of it, using the excuse of his injury to make a drastic change. But it remains, growing in thicker by the day, beginning to look more like a permanent fixture than an afterthought.

After their game day nap, Geno watches Sid meticulously shave around his mustache at one side of the double sink, hiding his amusement by brushing his teeth way longer than normal. Sid’s hand steadily drags the razor down his cheek. His eyes flick over to find Geno in the mirror. 

“What?”

The game is up. Geno spits out the toothpaste and rinses the brush. “Nothing,” he assures and escapes to go find his suit before Sid can interrogate him any further. 

In the car, Sid drums his fingers on his thigh for five minutes before he breaks. “I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t shave it until December.”

“Okay.”

“I know you hate it-”

“I never even say that.”

“Yeah, but... C’mon. You hate it.”

Geno takes his eyes off the road for half a second to look again. Sid glares his message to drive safely. It’s not like a pothole is going to jump out at them on these achingly familiar roads, but he obediently turns his attention back to the asphalt. “I don’t hate. Maybe you hate.”

“I don’t hate it. Half the time, I don’t even remember it’s there.”

“Then why you always complain?”

“Because I can tell when you hate something, and you hate my mustache.”

Geno makes a frustrated noise, mostly for show. Sid obviously wants this to be a point of contention, so he’ll oblige. “If I say I hate, you happy?”

Sid frowns. “I mean... I’ll be happy you were honest, I guess.”

“Fine. I hate.”

Sid hunkers down in his seat and rubs the back of his neck, right over the current strain. He’s going to prolong his injury if he keeps doing it, but Geno resists the urge to reach out and swat his hand away. 

He’s just starting to settle again, turning his mind to the matter of defending against Kucherov and Stamkos while trying to get momentum on offense, when Sid looks at him and makes him aware that it’s not over. 

“I bet I can make you like it.”

Geno raises his eyebrows and cuts a glance at him. Sid’s expression is calm and contemplative, but there something under it. Something mischievous. He licks his lips and his tongue grazes his mustache. There’s nothing sexy about it. Geno tries to tell himself that a couple of times, hoping the message will settle in. It doesn’t.

“What you bet?” Geno asks. 

Sid straightens up. He looks confident for the first time in a while. “If you hate it in a week, I shave it.”

“What if I don’t hate?”

“That’s my own reward, really.”

“Have to make bet.”

“Fine. If you don’t hate it in a week, you have to go a whole practice with one of my sticks.”

Geno grimaces. “Mean.”

“You said I had to.”

“Okay,” Geno says, switching to his left hand on the wheel so he can hold out the right. “Deal. One week.”

Sid takes the hand and shakes it firmly. “And most of that will just be healing my neck. I’ll only need an hour.”

His mustache makes his smirk so much smugger. 

******************* 

The bet sits for five days without mention or action. Sid doesn’t do anything with his mustache other than let it keep growing and occasionally wax it. He trains and rehabs and obediently follows instructions about icing his neck every hour in the afternoons after he skates. He doesn’t travel to Ottawa, which is fine. He can’t play, and the plane will only aggravate his neck. He obviously doesn’t watch the game, either, because he doesn’t make any noise about Geno’s reckless slashing penalty. 

Geno wakes up groggily on the fifth day and reaches for his phone, automatically going to silence the alarm before he realizes it’s not going off. He peeks at it and grimaces. It’s six in the morning. He doesn’t have to be up for another two hours for practice.

“Hey,” Sid says, alert like he’s been up for a while. He drapes an arm over Geno and nuzzles into the back of his neck. “You awake?”

Geno groans. “No.”

Sid laughs at him. “Okay. You can go back to sleep. Or...”

Geno looks back at him, feeling a little more alert. Sid smiles hopefully, stretching his mustache out over his upper lip. “You feel okay?”

“Yeah. It’s almost a hundred percent now.”

Still, Geno stays careful when he shifts onto his back and pulls Sid in to kiss him. The fully-formed mustache no longer scratches him when they kiss like it did when it was just glorified stubble. It’s a soft, unobjectionable sensation brushing along his skin, pleasantly accenting the movement of Sid’s mouth against his. 

They’ve been kissing long enough for Geno’s dick to take a decided interest in proceedings when it hits him. He jerks back. “This is plan to make me like mustache,” he accuses. 

Sid doesn’t look guilty at all. He shrugs. “A bet’s a bet. Besides, that wasn’t the plan. Kissing? Even I don’t think you’re that easy.”

Geno flounders, feigning shock and grasping for words. Sid smirks like he’s won, and Geno swats him. “What’s plan, then?”

Sid looks so pleased. Maybe he’s right. Maybe he has won. “Turn over, and I’ll show you.”

“Tell me first.”

Sid smacks his hip. “Turn over.”

Geno squints suspiciously, but he moves to obey. He settles on his front with his arms tucked under the pillow and waits to see what Sid is going to do. 

Sid strokes across his shoulders and down his back, his touch tender and sweet. It’s not at all what Geno was expecting, and it gets even more unexpected when Sid kneads his fingers into sore muscles, tight from last night’s game. He digs in with his knuckles in tight places and presses his thumbs along Geno’s spine until he’s groaning and melting into the mattress.

Sid’s lips follow the path of his hands, starting by trailing little, tickling kisses across his shoulders. His hands skim up Geno’s sides while his mouth journeys down Geno’s spine. His mustache brushes noticeably against Geno’s skin with every kiss, every touch of tongue. 

“This is mustache plan?” Geno asks, squirming. Because as much as he likes Sid’s gentle attention, he was hoping for something a little sexier. 

“What are you in such a hurry for? Practice isn’t for a couple hours.”

Geno huffs into the pillow, but he lost the battle when he agreed to submit to whatever Sid wanted. He’s just going to have to ride it out and see where it goes. He can feel Sid’s breathy laugh against the small of his back, responding to his impatience with no sympathy. 

But then Sid’s hands pull down on his boxers, and things start to look pretty interesting. His kisses get lower as his hands work the boxers down Geno’s legs and off. He uses an elbow to nudge Geno’s leg out, spreading them enough to settle between, his bulky arms stretching Geno’s thighs apart.

Geno jolts when Sid nuzzles into one of his one of his butt cheeks and kneads the other one with his hand. Sid grazes him with his teeth, a gentle bite into the muscle, not even enough to leave a temporary mark. His mustache is bristly in relief, sweeping away the sensation of pressure when he kisses the skin over the bite. He kisses a trail toward Geno’s tailbone.

Sid’s other hand comes up and spans the prickling skin he was just kissing, probably beard-burned and pink under his palm. There’s no question from there where he’s going. Geno grips the pillow hard as Sid spreads his cheeks and licks across his hole with the flat of his tongue.

“Ah, fuck, Sid. What the fuck?” Geno breathes, because they don’t do this. It’s the kind of thing that only happens in porn. It’s certainly nothing he would have expected from his simple, straightforward Sid, who prefers to fuck missionary and won’t let Geno blow him on the living room couch, “Just in case,” even though they have privacy blinds and live half a mile from their nearest neighbor. That tame person Geno thought he knew is now licking into his ass like it’s his favorite candy. 

At first, Geno isn’t even sure he likes it. It’s a lot of sensation all at once. He finds himself squirming to get away, to get some relief, but Sid’s not letting him go anywhere. He follows his attempts to buck away, if anything more intent on licking into his ass. Geno forces himself to settle into it, thighs tense and trembling. He grips the pillow like he’s trying to choke the life out of it, and all the while Sid never lets up. 

He knows he could tap. Sid would stop if he said the word. But just when he thinks he needs to, when he’s opening his mouth to beg for mercy, the initial overwhelming feeling starts to fade. The swipes of Sid’s tongue stop sending shocks of tickling near-pain up his spine and settle into something easier to handle. His hands stop trying to rip the stuffing out of the pillow. He sinks into the mattress with a relieved sigh. 

Sid groans like he’s enjoying himself when Geno relaxes. His breath cools the spit on Geno’s hole before his tongue warms it again. He laps eagerly a few times before he pulls Geno’s cheeks apart more and really dives in. Geno buries his face in the pillow to muffle his own moaning. The sound only spurs Sid on more, encouraging him to rock the flat of his tongue back and forth in firm strokes. 

The last thing on Geno’s mind is their bet until Sid suddenly plants a sloppy wet kiss on his hole. The mustache sends a spark of new sensation through his body, both prickly and soft against sensitized skin. He renews his death grip on the pillow and gasps. Sid keeps kissing him, the spit-soaked feel of his facial hair like a warm, wet pelt against Geno’s ass. His tongue darts out to rejoin the action, circling Geno’s sensitive hole, and he can still feel the mustache brushing against him, hyper-aware of it now that he’s paying attention. 

It goes on like that for a while, with Sid alternating expertly between licking and kissing, his soft tongue working in tandem with his coarse facial hair to attack Geno’s senses. Geno distantly realizes he’s cursing into the pillow, biceps straining against nothing but the pleasure of Sid’s mouth. 

Sid pulls back when Geno starts rocking his hips down into the mattress, chuckling. “Not bad, then?”

Geno reaches back and pulls on his shoulder, hoping to get him to go back. He’s pretty sure he’s got tears leaking out of his eyes, but Sid doesn’t need to know that. Sid doesn’t immediately return to his duty, opting instead to nose against the lower part of Geno’s left butt cheek. 

“I’ve wanted to eat your ass for a long time now,” Sid murmurs against the crease of his thigh. “I guess I should have before. So you could compare.”

“Sid,” Geno pleads. 

Sid nuzzles against his ass with a relatively smooth cheek. Geno can feel the edge of his mustache, though. It’s wet with spit and growing cold. “You want some more? Or should I go shave?”

“No, just-” Geno pulls on him again.

“Wow. Do I win already? That’s way less than an hour.”

Geno makes a desperate, uncomfortable sound. His dick is trying to drill through the mattress, and Sid wants to talk about bets? “Sure, whatever. You win. Do something!”

He can feel Sid smile against his skin and kiss his cheek, leaving a cold spot behind where his mustache touched. Then, thankfully, he pulls Geno’s ass apart and licks back into him. 

Geno rocks back onto Sid’s tongue and moans. Sid doesn’t make any move to stop when Geno unclenches a hand from the abused pillow and squirms it down underneath him to wrap around his dick, giving himself some much-needed pressure. 

Geno comes with Sid’s tongue in his ass and his fingers pressing bruises into his skin where he’s gripping so hard. Geno collapses against the pillow, gasping, and Sid follows him down so he can get a few more open-mouthed, sloppy kisses against his hole. 

Geno doesn’t even get a chance to think about moving before Sid shifts above him, knee walking up between his thighs. For a second, Geno thinks he’s going to get the lube and fuck him, which he would be pretty on board with as long as he’s not expected to move much, but Sid doesn’t lean over. He plants a hand back on Geno’s ass, exposing his hole again. It’s probably very shiny. He can feel how wet it is. Sid’s breath hitches. Geno makes his body move so he can look back. Sid’s hand is working his cock like he’s at the very end, his eyes glued to Geno’s spit-soaked, beard-burned ass.

Sid makes a low sound and shoots over Geno’s hole, spatters of hot against his sensitized skin. Then he slumps over to collapse by Geno on the bed, panting up at the ceiling. 

Geno looks him over. His cheeks are flushed rosy from exertion. His lips are swollen and red. Above them, his mustache is absolutely soaked with spit, ruffled into a state of chaos. Geno reaches out to smooth it down with his thumb, and Sid smiles uncertainly over at him.

“Good mustache. Very good.”

Sid laughs at him and relaxes into his pillow.

************** 

Sid returns to full practice with his mustache intact and a determined attitude. He’s going to come back to the lineup and things are going to be different. He’s going to push his team back into playoff contention before January. He says it in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his jaw. He’s back and he means business.

Geno doesn’t tease him or make any effort to get him to relax. It’s good to see him with that kind of drive again. After a couple of summers of Cup hangovers and the past summer of traveling, motivation can be hard to come by. He just follows him into the locker room and goes immediately to his stall to get dressed for practice. 

Sid suits up and barrels out to get on the ice long before Geno even has his skates tied. Geno makes his way out when he’s done. Just outside the door, he reaches for a stick from his spot on the rack, expecting to grab the taped end of his stick as usual. 

It’s short. Instead of wrapping his hand around the shaft, the bottom of his glove grazes the top of the stick. He stops and glares over, assuming Dana somehow managed to switch his sticks with Phil’s or Jake’s. But no, his sticks aren’t on the rack at all. In his spot, where his sticks should be, are all CCMs with Crosby etched on them in bright white. They’re cut for Sid, every single one. Sid cuts his sticks short for maximum precision. The top doesn’t reach Sid’s chin, resting somewhere just above his clavicle, which means they barely reach Geno’s chest with skates on. He ducks his head and resignedly picks one up. 

He doesn’t make it three feet onto the ice before Tanger starts in. “Lose a bet?” he asks, leaning on the boards in front of the bench and grinning at Geno’s comically short stick. 

Sid’s right there beside Tanger, smirking away under his mustache. He raises his eyebrows like he would also like to know the answer. Geno should tell Tanger exactly how he lost the bet, so he can watch Sid die from embarrassment. 

“No, I never lose,” he insists, because he’s hard-pressed to call himself a loser in all this. He got a killer orgasm out of it. “I just want to see magic backhand stick.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure it’ll work just as well for you. Since it’s half a foot short.”

“Four inches,” Sid corrects. 

“Right, my bad. ‘Four inches.’” He says it with air quotes and a laugh pulling at his mouth. “It’s okay to have a small stick, Sid. We all still love you.”

Sid chuckles and shakes his head. “I appreciate that.”

Geno frowns down at the stick in his hands. He puts the blade on the ice to see how it will feel to use it and almost taps out. If he begs enough, if he puts on a sweet enough face and makes a case about his effectiveness for practice, Sid will cave and let him have his sticks back. 

Then he looks up, and Sid is laughing at him. He becomes a thousand times more determined. He’ll not only use Sid’s stupidly short stick; he’ll tear the ice up with it.

************ 

On the first day of December, Sid stands at the sink with his razor in hand and stares at the mirror like a deer in headlights. 

“You don’t have to,” Geno reminds him. 

“It’s December.”

“You got hat trick last game.”

Sid’s eyebrows draw down at the reminder of their frustrating loss despite his goals. “It didn’t help.”

“Don’t pout. Mustache can’t make whole team good. Only you.”

Sid looks at him in the mirror. The unease in his eyes, the lingering worry about the team, abates into amusement. “You want me to keep it.”

Geno shrugs. “Maybe little while,” he says casually, like he doesn’t care that much. 

“It’ll be back next year.”

The idea of waiting another year for Sid to eat him out again is maddening. Geno frowns his disappointment at the thought.

“Besides, you should see what it feels like smooth. Maybe it’s better.”

Geno locks eyes with him in the mirror. Sid’s look is incendiary, heating Geno’s face. He looks away, grinning. “Okay, shave.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Sid looks back at himself in the mirror. “Okay,” he says like he’s gearing up. Then he doesn’t move. The razor hovers in his hand. The shaving cream sits, untouched. Geno watches him as long as he can without laughing and finally stops struggling. 

“You make us late. Keep, don’t keep. Make choice before game time, okay?” Geno kisses the back of his head and goes away to get his suit on, leaving Sid to argue with himself for however long it takes him to decide.

**Author's Note:**

> I have personal, non-hockey reasons to be happy about the end of Movember. It's been a struggle. Happy December, everyone!


End file.
